Hunt the Scorpion (16 page)

The bearded guy who had been doing all the shouting threw his stick at Crocker and reached for the pistol in his holster, but before he could remove it, Crocker peppered him with bullets from his chest to his head—a modified Mozambique, in SEAL lingo.

The little man stumbled back, hit the far wall next to where Ritchie was seated, and slumped to the floor. Crocker blasted another couple of rounds into his head just to be sure.

Ritchie started squirming and tried to talk through the tape plastered across his mouth. He wanted to be cut free. Crocker turned to his right to exchange the ancient PPSh-41 for one of the more modern AKs the soldiers had been carrying. But just as he started to pivot, two more soldiers came rushing into the room. Seeing Crocker with the Soviet submachine gun pointed at them, one of them jumped behind the door. The other raised his AK.

Crocker squeezed off three bullets before the Soviet submachine gun jammed. The bullets tore into the soldier’s right arm. But instead of giving up, the young man with a thick black beard tried to shift the AK-47 to his left. It was a valiant effort that ended when Crocker, wielding the submachine gun like a club, took his right knee out, then finished him off with a blow to the head.

Crocker heard more automatic-weapons fire down the hallway and below.

He grabbed one of the AKs and pulled the tape off Ritchie’s mouth.

“Motherfucker!” Ritchie shouted. “You took off half my lip.”

“You don’t need it anyway. Hold still.”

He removed the rusted saw blade from his pocket and used it to cut through the tape around Ritchie’s ankles and wrists. Then he handed him the blade.

“Cut the others free. I’ll watch the door.”

“Ten-four.”

The room was a mess of blood and smoke. A bleeding, bruised, naked Jabril lay in the fetal position in a corner. His eyes were closed, but Crocker noticed the skin near his sternum was rising and falling. John Lasher sat slumped in a chair, long red slash marks over his chest and face. He too looked unconscious. Crocker would attend to them later. He had to deal with the enemy first.

It sounded like all-out war downstairs. Made him feel proud of Davis.

When he stuck his head out to look, bullets tore into the concrete wall, spitting dust into his mouth and eyes.

He dropped to the floor and fired back. The AK felt smooth and light in his hands, producing half the noise and recoil of the PPSh-41. But the hallway was dark, and he couldn’t see anything except a dark object coming toward him that landed with a thud on the floor and rolled.

“Grenade!” he shouted, jumping inside and hiding behind the wall.

The concussion was so strong he thought his head was going to burst open. So powerful, in fact, that it picked up the four fallen soldiers and threw them against the wall facing the window he’d jumped through only minutes earlier. The room was foul with entrails and smoke.

Ritchie and Mancini staggered to their feet, armed themselves, and were ready to exact revenge.

“Where’s Akil?” Crocker asked.

“He wasn’t with us,” Mancini answered, wiping gore off his face with the back of his hand.

“What happened to him?”

Ritchie: “Don’t know.”

“You two okay?”

“More or less.”

Ritchie: “Fucking savages hadn’t gone to work on us yet.”

“Lucky.”

“Sodomized the doctor with the stick.”

“Jesus!”

“What now?” Mancini asked.

Crocker said, “Manny, you and Ritchie stay here. Defend the room. Kill as many of those fuckers as you can.”

“Where you going?”

“I’m going to circle around front and hit the bastards from behind.”

“Nice.”

Crocker started toward the window and stopped to retrieve an automatic pistol from the dead leader’s blood-and-guts-covered holster.

He was about to grab the frame of the window when he heard someone shout. He looked back to see Mancini using a hand to break his fall.

“You okay?”

Mancini had a vague, confused look on his face. “The explosion fucked my head up a little.”

Crocker turned back to check him. Since Mancini wasn’t bleeding from his nose or ears, he figured it was a mild case of shock. He said forcefully, “We’re depending on you, Manny. We need you to focus.”

“I will.”

Another, much milder explosion shook the building as Crocker climbed out the window. The concussion made him stumble.

Fuck!

He ran to the ladder and slid down. The back side of the building appeared deserted. All the action seemed to be going on out front. He heard something stir in the field to his right and readied the AK.

Something moved near a shattered wooden crate. Another hyena? A soldier?

He made out the form of a tall man holding a piece of wood or metal. The outline reminded him of someone.

“Akil?” he whispered.

“Boss?”

Akil dropped whatever he was brandishing and approached, holding his right wrist. He whispered, “I managed to get away, but I fucked up my hand again.”

Crocker handed him the pistol. “Here. Hold this with your left. Follow me.”

He proceeded quickly to the end of the barracks and peered around the corner. Saw orange flames as high as the roof of the barracks coming from two of the Toyota trucks. They lit up the whole front of the camp.

“What’s going on?” Akil whispered.

Crocker held a finger to his mouth. Soldiers were trying to save the other two trucks. He took aim with the AK and fired. As he did, someone started shooting at them from behind the barracks.

Akil pushed him. “Boss, get down!”

Bullets slammed into the ground around them and whizzed overhead.

Crocker said: “Use the pistol and try to take out the driver. I’ll deal with the bastards behind us.”

But the building cast a dark shadow, making it hard to see. He squinted into the ribbon of black. Saw someone move, followed by a shoulder-fired rocket discharge. He shouted, “Hit the ground!” as he dove belly-first to the cement.

The rocket screamed overhead and exploded against the side of a disabled tank. Hot metal spun through the air, smacking the side of the building and ricocheting.

Akil stopped firing.

Crocker whispered, “You get hit? What’s wrong?”

“I ran out of ammo. You got an extra mag?”

A moment after he answered no, soldiers opened up behind them with automatic weapons. In front of them and around the corner of the building, the driver of one of the Toyotas gunned its engine and spun it in a half circle so that its .50-caliber machine gun faced them from less than forty feet away. A soldier in the truck’s bed aimed it and started firing—
pop! pop! pop!

It tore chunks of concrete from the side and corner of the building, making it almost impossible for Crocker to return fire.

Akil, urgently: “Boss, we’d better circle back!”

“How?”

The soldiers behind them inched closer. Their only protection was a two-foot-high concrete wall that extended from the end of the building; their only options were facing the soldiers in back or making a wild dash for the disabled tank. But the Toyota backed toward them with its .50-cal firing, cutting off that possibility.

Crocker returned fire at the soldiers in back and was about to make a desperate run toward them when his ammo ran out. Now they were really fucked.

“What now?” Akil shouted, prone on the ground.

Crocker shrugged and flashed on an image of Holly getting out of the shower.

They had nothing to defend themselves with. The enemy was closing in on both sides. Bullets were tearing into the concrete from front and back.

He said, “Let’s make a run for the tank!”

Akil nodded, resignation in his eyes. “Why not?”

Crocker took one last glance at the Toyota, which had backed to within twenty-five feet of them, and saw something flicker beyond it and to his right. A small flame moved forward. He made out Davis, running. The gunner in back tried to maneuver the .50-cal so he could train it at him.

Holy shit!

When Davis got within fifteen feet of the Toyota, he threw the Molotov cocktail, twisted, and fell to the ground.

The gunner exploded in flames and screamed.

Crocker to Akil: “Let’s run! Now!”

He flew past the burning truck and was looking for Davis when someone hit him and tackled him from behind. Next thing he knew he was grappling with a soldier in the dirt, smelling his putrid breath, grabbing for his neck.

He heard Akil shouting, “Boss, I recovered some weapons! Boss, where the fuck did you go?”

He was about to yell back when something exploded in the back of the truck, blowing dirt and debris into his mouth and eyes. This allowed his attacker to spin on top of him, grab the knife from his belt, and aim it at Crocker’s throat.

He saw the hatred in the man’s eyes, then started choking. As his mind flashed back to Holly, a bolt of energy surged through his body. He reached up, grabbed the arm holding the knife, and twisted his torso sharply right. As soon as the soldier spilled off, Crocker spun and kicked him in the face, then grabbed the knife and thrust the blade into his heart.

Breathless, blood dripping from his hands, he found Akil and Davis standing behind the burning trucks.

“You saved our asses,” he mumbled as the latter handed him an AK with a green flag painted on its wooden stock and extra mags. “Thanks.”

“I’m returning the favor.”

He wasn’t sure what Davis was referring to. He was trying to clear his head, assess the situation—the soldiers with the rocket launcher in back of the building; Lasher and Jabril badly injured; Ritchie and Mancini defending them in the room on the second floor.

Still work to do.

“What now, boss? Wanna set something else on fire?” Akil asked, grinning.

“Let’s take out the fuckers in back first.”

“Works for me,” Davis offered.

Akil: “Can’t buy entertainment like this.”

“You guys engage them from behind the tank. I’ll circle around the other side.”

“Now?”

“No, tomorrow!”

He took off at a gallop. Forty seconds later he reached the other side of the building, peeked around, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

Three-quarters of the way down, approximately a hundred feet away, he saw two dark figures hugging the side of the building. One of them knelt and fired an RPG into the side of the tank.

Davis and Akil returned fire.

During the ferocious exchange, Crocker snuck up behind them. When he got within thirty feet, one of the soldiers turned, and Crocker squeezed a volley of bullets into the man’s chest. Watched him fall back and stumble into the second man, who dropped the RPG and reached for his rifle. Crocker cut him down, too. He imagined the bones in his legs shattering. Heard the man mouth a last plea for help.

He watched the two of them bleed out. Then he whistled to his men, gathered the RPG, three unfired rockets, a Russian PKM machine gun, and a pistol, and distributed them to Davis and Akil, who had arrived still out of breath.

“More toys to play with,” Akil wisecracked.

Sucking wind, Crocker said, “Now let’s attack the barracks from the front.”

“No fucking rest?” Akil asked.

Davis: “Hell, no!”

“You feeling better?” Crocker asked Akil.

“Aces, boss. I’m juiced on adrenaline. The hand is numb.”

“Let’s hit the rest of those fuckers. Hard!”

They stepped around some debris in front and entered through the door—Akil with the RPG-2, Davis cradling the heavy PKM, Crocker leading the way with the AK with the green flag painted on it and a 9-millimeter pistol—all of them covered with sweat, dirt, and blood.

They took the steps two at a time to the second floor. From the second-story landing they saw three of the enemy halfway down the hall, trying to fight their way into the room holding the other four men.

Akil loaded a rocket into the RPG and lifted it onto his shoulder. Crocker held up his arm and shook his head no.

He waited for Davis to set up the PKM on the floor and open fire. A tremendous noise filled the narrow hall. Bullets flew and ricocheted off the concrete floor and walls, sending up sparks and dust. Davis kept up the barrage for a full forty seconds, until Crocker held up his hand and crunched it into a fist.

The three SEALs waited for a response from the enemy soldiers. None came. When the dust and smoke cleared, they found them all dead, perforated with bullet holes.

Crocker to Davis: “Nice work.”

T
he sun
was just starting to rise by the time they limped back to the Sebha airport. Thankfully, the CC-130 was still waiting, along with its Canadian pilot and copilot, who looked at the bloodied, exhausted men and asked, “What the hell happened to you fellows?”

“Get us the fuck out of here,” Crocker answered. “I’ll tell you when we’re in the air.”

Ritchie and Akil stood guard as the others loaded Jabril, Lasher, and the aluminum canister containing the UF6 wrapped in the lead sheet. Crocker didn’t care that it was probably leaking radiation. He said to the pilot, “Radio ahead. Tell them we’re bringing back two badly injured men who are in need of emergency medical care.”

“Got it.”

He buckled in and breathed a sigh of relief as the plane tore into the early morning sky.

“Fuck that hellhole,” Ritchie muttered, setting down the AK and looking down at the city roofs that had turned gold in the sunlight.

Davis crossed himself and said a quick prayer of thanks.

Mancini asked, “Don’t think you’ll be going back, huh? We can rent a couple of camels. Explore the desert.”

“Un-fucking-likely.”

Mancini: “Come on, Ritchie, it’s a fun place. Great scenery. Spirited locals.”

Ritchie: “Hey. Who were those assholes? Where the hell were the NTC and NATO?”

“Good question,” Crocker said. “I was under the impression that the city was safe.”

“Safe, my ass.”

Mancini had collapsed into an aircraft seat and started snoring. Akil sat back and closed his eyes.

“Unlikely I’m going to sleep in the next day or two,” Davis offered. “My body’s so pumped.”

Ritchie: “I’m staying wide awake ’til we leave this fucking country.”

“Then you guys can help me,” Crocker said, getting up and moving to the medical cots bolted to the side of the fuselage where Lasher and Jabril were strapped.

“What do you need, boss?”

“If one of you can find the emergency medical kit on this crate, I’d like the other to remind the pilot to radio ahead for two ambulances and a couple of doctors.”

Ritchie: “Done.”

First he attended to Jabril, who was out cold and seemed to be suffering from stage-two hypovolemic shock as a result of the blood loss from his various wounds. His skin was cold and clammy, his pulse extremely rapid, which meant that his heart was working overtime to pump the little blood remaining in his body.

Crocker raised the doctor’s legs to facilitate blood flow to vital organs and the brain, and checked to make sure that all his external wounds had stopped bleeding. What he couldn’t do anything about now was any internal bleeding that might have been caused by the stick the savages had thrust up the doctor’s rectum. All he could do was tuck several blankets around him, drag over the tank he found nearby, strap a mask around Jabril’s head, and administer oxygen.

Turning to Davis, he said, “Keep an eye on him. Watch for vomiting. Make sure his breathing remains unobstructed. Anything changes, shout. I’ll be back to check his vital signs.”

“Okay, boss.”

John Lasher was also unconscious. His shock appeared to be neurogenic, caused by a severe blow to his head or spinal column. Judging from the state of his body, it looked like he’d received both. His pulse was less than forty beats a minute, and he’d been asleep for almost twenty minutes. Crocker tried to gently wake him by calling his name.

After several tries he responded, “Where am I?” Then closed his eyes. A few minutes later he opened them and asked the same question.

Crocker answered, “We’re on a plane flying back to Tripoli.”

Lasher blinked, looked up at Crocker, and said, “You wait here. I’ll go back and get the truck.”

They landed in the capital city at around noon. Only one ambulance was waiting, and instead of a doctor, NATO had sent a couple of young Moroccan nurses. Crocker struggled hard to keep his cool. He wanted to vent all the anger and frustration he was carrying.

Phone calls were made; another ambulance was sent. An hour later Jabril and Lasher were being treated at Tripoli Central Hospital.

Crocker and his team returned to the guesthouse, where he showered, changed his clothes, ate a bowl of yogurt, then turned around and drove to the U.S. embassy.

Remington sat huddled with some of his station officers when Crocker entered, red-eyed and haggard. The SEAL team leader was so mentally and physically exhausted he wasn’t sure that what he was seeing was real or a dream. So he sat down, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and willed himself to focus.

Remington rubbed his close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and said, “Jesus, Crocker. What the hell happened in Sebha? We’ve been hearing all kinds of rumors all morning.”

“We were attacked.”

“By whom?”

“About a dozen men with green flags painted on their vehicles and on the butts of their weapons.”

Remington said, “We got a report that Lasher and Dr. Jabril are in the hospital. Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is. We had just recovered a canister of what Dr. Jabril said was UF6 from a hidden chamber behind the camp when a dozen armed locals kidnapped Lasher, Jabril, and two of my men. One of them escaped and hid. The other two of us managed to get the captured men back, but it was bloody, exhausting, and difficult. Lasher and Jabril were beaten and tortured. They’re in bad shape.”

“UF6?” Remington exclaimed.

“That’s correct.”

“Where is it now?”

“The canister we brought back is under NATO guard at the airport here. The rest is still hidden in a tunnel behind the base.”

Perplexed, worried looks were exchanged around the table.

“Where was the local constabulary?” one of the officers asked.

“I have no idea,” Crocker answered. “When we drove through the city, we saw green flags flying from buildings and vehicles but didn’t realize that the transition government had completely lost control.”

Remington leaned back in his chair and moaned. “This is bad.”

“Very bad. We barely escaped alive.”

“Did these men identify themselves?”

“No, they did not.”

“And you engaged them in combat?”

“Yes, we did. At least a dozen armed men. As far as I could tell, we killed them all.”

Crocker was waiting for the CIA officer to get mad or lose his temper. Instead he maintained a state of weary consternation. His fellow officers looked completely overwhelmed.

Remington said, “Let me make sure I’ve got this right. You brought one canister of UF6 back with you, which is at the airport. The rest you left in a tunnel behind the base at Sebha.”

“That’s correct.”

“How many canisters are there in all?”

“Twelve.”

Remington looked at the other officers and said, “We’re going to have to figure out how to secure them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Lasher confirmed that it is indeed UF6?” Remington asked.

“Dr. Jabril did. He opened one of the canisters and examined the glass ampoules inside.”

“Where is Dr. Jabril now?”

“I believe the name of the facility is Tripoli Center Hospital. He and Lasher are being treated by a Belgian doctor.”

“How serious are their injuries?”

“Critical. Both men went into shock. I was told they’re going to be medevaced to Germany as soon as their conditions stabilize.”

Remington rose, leaned both hands on the table, and shook his head. “This is awful. Horrendous.”

Crocker asked, “Any news about my wife and Brian?”

Remington shook his head as though he didn’t want to be bothered. “No. Not yet.”

Crocker groaned. “Shit.”

The acting CIA station chief looked up at him and said, “Before you leave, the ambassador wants to see you.”

Feeling numb, Crocker followed him down several halls and past the ambassador’s secretary, who said, “Go in.”

They found the ambassador leaning toward a mirror, adjusting the knot in his tie. CNN International was playing in the background.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen. Sit down. I want to hear what happened…”

Crocker’s brain wanted to shut down, and the muscles in his legs were shaking. But he forced himself to relate everything in detail again. The ambassador didn’t seem as upset as Crocker had expected him to be.

He said, “Transitions are messy. After forty years of a military dictator, no one expected this to be easy. I’m sorry for your trouble, Crocker. I commend you and your men. Trust me when I tell you that we’ll deal with this and put it behind us.”

Saltzman took his hand and squeezed his shoulder. “Thank your men for me. Get some rest.”

Crocker stood, but his feet didn’t want to carry him out.

He felt awkward, disoriented, unsure that what he’d just experienced was real. The ambassador’s low-key reaction seemed at odds with the importance of his team’s discovery.

A red-haired secretary entered and whispered something to the ambassador, who was combing his hair.

Remington put an arm around Crocker’s shoulders and asked, “Are you alright?”

As he looked at Remington, his whole body started to tremble, and he realized that neither man had mentioned Holly, even though she’d been missing for more than two days.

“Sir, you haven’t mentioned my wife.”

Remington tried to pull him out the door, whispering, “Not now.”

Holding his ground, Crocker said, louder this time, “Mr. Ambassador, is there any news? Any new developments I should know about?”

Saltzman looked at Remington, who cleared his throat and said, “Yes, your wife. Of course. We’ve been working on that 24/7 and believe she’s safe.”

“Where, sir? Where is she?”

“We’re tracking down some leads on that, which I can’t divulge.”

“You know who’s holding her?”

“We have some ideas, yes.”

“And you believe she’s being well treated?”

“Yes we do, Crocker.”

He felt overcome with emotion, as though he was going to cry. He bit down hard and said, “Please do everything you can to get her back safely.”

“We will, Crocker,” Remington said.

Ambassador Saltzman: “We’re doing all we can.”

He wanted to scream “All isn’t enough!” but used every ounce of his willpower to restrain himself.

“Okay,” he muttered, turning on his toes. He walked back to the Suburban feeling he was about to explode.

He dreamt he was underwater. The tank on his back had run out of oxygen, and he was trying to fight his way to the surface, but the hulls of several large ships blocked his access.

Holly whispered urgently in his ear, “Tom. Tom. Help me! I’m up here!”

His lungs burning, he tried to squeeze between two ships and got stuck.

“Tom! Tom, quick!”

Kicking, pushing, and squirming with all his might.

“Holly! Holly, I’m coming!”

He woke up in the guesthouse bedroom gasping for air, his entire body covered with sweat.

Akil lay gently snoring on a cot under an open window. The light was fading outside. In the distance he heard the call for evening prayers being blasted from loudspeakers.

The door opened with a creak. He turned and looked for his weapon.

“Boss,” Davis whispered, “you awake?”

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

“Doug Volman’s here to see you.”

“Volman? What does he want?”

“He’s here to talk to you. Says it’s important.”

What Crocker really wanted to do was go back to sleep, but he forced himself awake. “Alright.”

Crocker found Volman standing in the living room wearing a yellow-black-and-white Hawaiian shirt and black pants. He was sipping a can of Coca-Cola and looked more like a college kid on vacation than a State Department officer.

He said, “I heard you guys had a rough time down south.”

“Yes, we did. What’s up?”

Volman scowled. His watery eyes protruded and his skin was splotchy. He said, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but sometimes personal feelings trump career ambition, if you know what I mean.”

It hurt Crocker even to think. “Please explain what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about being a human being first. You know, Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Crocker was familiar with the Golden Rule. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I still don’t understand.”

Volman removed a crushed carton of Camels from his pants pocket. His hands shook as he started to separate one from the pack. “Okay if I smoke?”

Crocker walked across the room on bare feet, leaned on the sofa behind Volman, and cranked open the window. Beyond the wall that separated the two residences, he heard the neighbor’s kids laughing. “Go ahead.”

Volman fumbled with the lighter, then dropped the lit cigarette on the floor. “Sorry.” He bent down to scoop up the ashes.

“Don’t worry about that. What’s this about?”

Sitting down on the faded wine-colored sofa, Volman blew the cigarette smoke over his shoulder. “Your wife and Brian Shaw.”

Crocker pulled up a chair and sat across from him. “What about them?”

Volman looked down at the cigarette he was holding and asked, “You spoke to Remington earlier today, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

Volman leaned forward and whispered. “Did he mention anything about a ransom offer?”

“No, he didn’t.”

Volman nodded. “I didn’t think so.”

“The kidnappers issued a ransom note? Who are they? What did the note say?”

“I could be fired for telling you this. Dismissed from the service.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Crocker’s whole body started to tingle. He was wide awake now.

“You’re going to have to force them to be more proactive.”

“Force who?”

Volman inhaled smoke from the cigarette and shook his head. “The ransom offer came from a group that calls itself Martyrs of the Revolution.”

“Who are they?”

Volman exhaled and shrugged. “Nobody’s ever heard of them before.”